


The Portuguese Man’s Guide to Dating

by Guede



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bad Matchmaking, Bondage, Crack Treated Seriously, FC Barcelona, Fluff and Humor, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gags, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24499423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Once upon a time, Pep Guardiola and Luís Figo weren’t the suave, worldly, prescient men they are now.  Fortunately, Mourinho has never suffered that problem.
Relationships: Luis Figo/Pep Guardiola, Pep Guardiola/José Mourinho, Raúl González/Fernando Morientes, Raúl González/Pep Guardiola, Vítor Baía/José Mourinho
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Portuguese Man’s Guide to Dating

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2009.

“You can’t kill him,” Luís said.

Pep rolled over onto his back and put up his leg. He closed his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because I said so.” Luís slid his hands around Pep’s ankle, his fingertips warm and slightly rough against Pep’s skin. He paused to reposition himself, then let out a long grunt as he pulled Pep’s leg up over his shoulder. “No, really, you can’t kill him. Murder is not an acceptable method of dispute resolution.”

“Says who?” Pep muttered. Then his eyes flew open and he jerked himself up onto his elbows. Then went painfully off one elbow as Luís kept jamming his shoulder against Pep’s calf. “Virgin mother of—”

“Shut up, you can take it. Breathe, stretch-- _umph_ …” Luís paused to adjust his grip on Pep’s ankle “…as I was saying. No homicide.”

One of Luís’ fingers had slipped under Pep’s sock, its nail grazing over a half-healed scrape where the shin-guards had dug in at the last match. It was a sunny day but there was a slight breeze and it was blowing right up Pep’s shorts in this position. Breathing, Pep thought, was the last damned thing Luís should be worried about. “Fine. But just for you.”

“But of course. Now, about the match with Real. Otherwise known as your twice-yearly guaranteed chance to harass Spain’s newest bright young thing,” Luís said, caressing Pep’s calf. Or maybe trying to make Pep’s hamstring give up any pretenses of tension. Either way he was arching his eyebrows and squinting down his long, slightly lumpy nose at Pep in that irritatingly fantasy-inducing way of his. “Robson understood, or possibly he simply didn’t like turning on lights he didn’t have to. But Van Gaal’s an entirely different type of bulb.”

Pep snorted, then gasped as his tendons suddenly spasmed and unwound. “Which is why putting him in the soil behind the goal wouldn’t be a bad—”

“Now, now,” Luís said, stepping back. He watched Pep’s legs flop to the ground with a critical eye, then walked around behind Pep. His breath floated over the back of Pep’s neck, warm and smelling of the morning’s coffee, and then he yanked Pep up onto his feet before Pep’s leg muscles had fully figured out whether they were spaghetti or steel. “We just went over that. We’ve moved on to your molesting tendencies.”

For a moment Pep couldn’t speak and it had nothing to do with his inability to raise his head higher than the hem of Luís’ shorts. He idly noticed that it could use a few stitches; it was unraveling. “What?”

“Look, he’s adorable, even with ugly sweaters and the awful haircut, but you’ve got to remember things like we’re playing away and you have to catch the team bus to get home and I heard a rumor that Morientes is moving in on him too. I know it’s a time-honored tradition to harass Real as much as possible but I _think_ petting Raúl in his own dressing room might—”

Pep grabbed Luís’ knee. It had the electric effect of making the man shut up, and a small tingle hopefully nested itself in Pep’s breast. He slowly straightened up. “Luís. _I am not fucking Raúl González two weeks from now._ ”

Luís frowned.

“Really. Not—I’m not. I’m a grown man and furthermore, I’ve grown up at Barcelona and it’s _Real_. Madrid,” Pep added. He tried to look Luís in the eye, but unfortunately his arms weren’t long enough to allow that without letting go of the man’s knee. Which, with much regret, Pep did, but only so he could grab Luís’ shoulder. “I know better.”

“Well. I suppose I trust you,” Luís said slowly, and Pep breathed a sigh of relief.

They looked at each other. The sun shone, the breeze tickled at their thighs, Pep slowly and furtively started to lean forward.

“Right, then. No feeling up Raúl.” Luís dropped out from under Pep’s hand.

When Pep had recovered, the sun was still shining and his shorts were draftier than a medieval stone farmhouse in winter, and Luís was making himself comfortable on the exercise mat on the grass before him. Pep noticed his hand was still in the air and started to move it, only to have a muscled ankle smack into it.

“That’s a relief. That means I can just go straight to the masseuse instead of watching the door for you. Go easy on the left, all right?” Luís muttered. “I’m still feeling something tight there.”

Pep looked at the ankle, then looked at the man on the grass, who was gazing up at him with an unsuspecting, casual, vaguely friendly expression. Just wanting a little help with his warm-up, like any teammate.

* * *

Luís gingerly lowered himself to the ground and closed his eyes. He squeezed them shut hard as the physio lifted his leg, then hissed his breath out through gritted teeth.

“Well?” said a familiar voice.

Upon opening his eyes, Luís found himself staring up at José Mourinho’s intent gaze, which was fixed on some point between Luís’ knees. Mourinho didn’t acknowledge Luís’ start or reflexive attempt to shut his knees, which ended rather nastily for the physio’s glasses, but he did do Luís the courtesy of pretending it was all about figuring out whether Luís was fit to go on or not. At least till the physio got out of the way and went off to tend to his bruised cheekbone.

“It’s not a good thing to take out your temper on the staff,” Mourinho pointed out.

“I wasn’t—that was an accident,” Luís said firmly. He rotated his hip, letting his leg ride over the icepack strapped to it, and reluctantly decided he wasn’t getting up just then. “And what temper? I’m a nice person and you know it.”

Mourinho pursed his lips.

“And anyway, what was that with Pep? He was complaining about Van Gaal again—did they have another ‘short discussion’?” Luís continued.

“I was on the other side of the field and I didn’t see it.” Then Mourinho turned around to talk to the physio, who’d edged back up to see how Luís was taking the icepack. He scribbled some notes down while the physio prodded Luís’ leg, listened to the resulting grunts and then pronounced a sentence of another ten minutes. The physio scuttled off again and Mourinho looked disapprovingly at Luís over his notebook. “But still, I think you should know how to conduct yourself. You’re used to difficult situations and you should have handled that better.”

Luís blew out his breath and let his head fall back on the grass. “Handle what better? We were stretching, we weren’t even in training yet. What are you talking about? Pep’s feet?”

“Exactly,” Mourinho said, pursing his lips again.

The icepack was beginning to leak water up Luís’ shorts and into his underwear. His leg was still twinging but he sat up anyway and yanked off the icepack. Then he hefted it and looked around, but Mourinho was already across the pitch—Luís squinted. He thought he’d just seen Mourinho pat Pep’s left buttock, and now the two of them were standing with their heads bent together in close discussion, no doubt conspiring to overthrow the administration again. Their feet were even touching. Never mind Real. What was that about?

* * *

“It’s just incredibly frustrating. He’s an intelligent man with a good sense of intuition, and usually he’d have his finger right on the pulse, but when it comes to this…he’s as blind as a bat,” Pep ranted. He clawed futilely with his hands, then threw back his head and stared down. “I’m sticking my legs up for him every day in training, and what does he want to talk about? Catalonia? The newest dance tune? Portuguese _pata negra_ versus Spanish? Our goddamned playing formation? No, he wants to talk about whether I’m going to fuck Raúl when we play Real.”

“But you do,” Raúl pointed out. “Well, we’re not playing each other for another week but…”

Pep blinked. He looked at the man beneath him, then at the headboard behind Raúl’s tousled head. He flexed his fingers a couple of times into the bed and the soft mattress immediately gave under it, much like Raúl’s body around Pep’s cock. For a moment Pep’s mind began to drift. Then he shook his head. “Right. Sorry.”

“That you’re fucking me?” Raúl paused for a breath. He passed one hand over his forehead, which did nothing to clear off the dark strands stuck in the sweat there. Then he put his hand down and looked up at Pep with big, faintly accusing eyes that wound around Pep and then snugged tight, as irresistibly pushy as a small soft hungry kitten. “I thought we agreed that I’m not underage and the politics are for over coffee and you’re open-minded enough to treat me like a person and not like a symbol.”

“Uh. Yes. Precisely. Wait, no, no no no, I wasn’t thinking of you as a symbol at all. It’s not that. It’s. Well.” It was damned hard to remember how to translate ideals into action when Pep was balls-deep in something that felt like a heated silk glove. “I’m sorry I forgot I was…well…with…”

Raúl blinked his big eyes. It did nothing to loosen their grip on Pep’s guilt. On the contrary, they seemed to express a disappointment that was far, far older than him or Pep and that was rooted in every single thoughtless misstep their country had taken over the centuries, which were all now coming to roost because Pep couldn’t keep his mouth shut during sex. Michael Laudrup had once muttered that he might try gagging—Pep grimaced and dragged his attention back to Raúl. The man he was fucking. Yes. _God_.

Somehow, despite the sudden haze precipitated by Raúl grabbing Pep’s balls while also hitching up his hips so Pep slid in thatmuchGod further, Raúl’s plaintive voice penetrated the deepest. “Pep, we all know you’re obsessed with Luís Figo but—” thumb behind Pep’s scrotum pressing _justenough_ “—could you please finish fucking me first?”

“Of course,” Pep said vaguely. His knees to waist weren’t even listening, too busy pumping forward of their own accord. “I’m just very sorry that I gave you the impression of neglecting your—”

For a shy young prodigy who refused to dish on his dates to the tabloids, Raúl was remarkably forward about stabbing his tongue into Pep’s mouth. Then he rolled them over and sat hard on Pep’s cock, much like the first time they’d ended up like this. The haze turned into blinding white lightning, and just as it was scorching Pep’s mind out of the way, Pep felt something snap in his leg. Yes, that one with the wrongly-stretched hamstring. Luís, Pep thought, you are such a—

* * *

“—inconsiderate bastard,” Vitor mumbled.

Luís opened his mouth, shut it, stepped back to look at the doorbell like the taken-aback young man he hadn’t been in about five years, and shrugged. “It’s not like I knew you and Mourinho…wait, you and José?”

“Yes, you want something?” Mourinho nudged Vitor aside, then glanced at the other man. Mourinho was minus his suit-jacket but otherwise still dressed as spiffily as he had been for the photo-op that’d concluded the day’s training, while Vitor had on track-pants and a t-shirt turned back to front. “If that’s all your concerns…”

Vitor yawned and rubbed at his cheek. “Hmmm. Oh, yes. I think so. All right, see you later.”

“At the physio room,” Mourinho corrected. By the time Vitor had winced, Mourinho had already turned back to Luís. “I’m open to anybody’s concerns, but this is after hours, Luís.”

After a long moment, Luís simply hooked his thumb over his shoulder, at Vitor who was ambling away so slowly that he’d not even gotten behind Luís yet. Luís adjusted the angle of his thumb.

“He came when I said my office is open. I do go home at night.” Mourinho gave Luís a stare as opaque and dead as that of a Roman bust.

“Anyway, I wanted to ask about earlier,” Luís said, shouldering past Mourinho. He went into the office and looked around. The desk was covered in notebooks and videotapes. There were two chairs and they were positioned where you’d think chairs would be, and between them there wasn’t much space on the floor. Well, then, it was possible that Luís was overreacting. He wasn’t so full of himself that he didn’t allow for the occasional mistake. “When we were talking about Pep.”

The abrupt shutting of the door made Luís whip around, but Mourinho only gave him a tired look on the way to the desk. The other man went behind it, pulled out the chair and sat down heavily enough to make the chair rattle on its wheels. “Pep? Pep’s feet?”

“It wasn’t about Pep’s feet and you know it.” Luís grabbed one of the chairs and tugged it over, spinning it on one leg to get it facing the right way. He sat down on it and just caught a wince flickering over Mourinho’s face. But the seat was dry and he didn’t feel anything on the arms, and damn it, he refused to be bluffed out of this conversation. They both knew he hadn’t come to Barcelona a naïve kid. “You know, some day you’re going to meet somebody who _thrives_ on your mindfucks, and then you’ll be fixed.”

* * *

Somewhere in Portugal, a skinny teenager stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the sky with a pained expression. This being his normal facial arrangement, his teammates didn’t take any notice. The strange feeling of dread that’d come over the boy was familiar to him as well, so after a moment he just carried on.

* * *

“Fixed how,” Mourinho said, not asked. His tone indicated he’d already seen such an eventuality and had mapped out a twelve-point plan, complete with diagrams, for dealing with it. Given what his prematch notes looked like, Luís wouldn’t have put it past the man. “Listen, Luís, I’ve got nothing on Pep.”

Luís sat up straight in his chair and ignored the increasingly loud little voice in the back of his head, which was urging him to stand anyway. He couldn’t be sure and hygienic concerns were more important than his pride. That little voice didn’t know him too well. “I wasn’t asking you to blackmail him. I just want to know what’s going on. He’s been acting very odd lately.”

“Wouldn’t you know better than me? I’m one of the staff. You’re his friend.” The inflection of Mourinho’s tone managed to both accuse Luís of failing at his duties and imply his fundamental stupidity at not knowing what they were. Then Mourinho shrugged and picked up a notebook. “You’ve been here a year longer than me and you know how things are done better.”

“So it _is_ the administration,” Luís said.

Mourinho looked at the notebook, then put it down and placed his hand on top of it as if he needed the support. He had a rare moment of humanity, in that he actually looked like his outward frustration reflected his innermost feelings and not merely his desire to make everyone believe he had already foreseen the end of the world. “Luís. It’s not the administration. Was Pep talking to you about the administration? I don’t think so. So—”

“He was talking about how he’d like to chop Van Gaal up into little pieces and use him to fertilize the pitch for the goalkeepers’ benefit.”

For a moment Mourinho was derailed. Then he recomposed his pout and threw in a gimlet-eyed stare for good measure. “And after that?”

“Harassing Raúl González. Well, to be honest, I brought that one up, but Pep was very interested in pursuing the topic, and anything to do with Real Madrid is actually to do with Barcelona, so we’re back to the ad…José. José.” Luís leaned forward, but couldn’t quite see over the tape stacks. He tilted from side to side, then finally gave in and stood up so he could fully take in the view of José Mourinho planting his nose in his desk. “My God, are you all right? Is that what it takes to do you—”

“I’m not _done_. I _do_ ,” Mourinho snapped. He remained with his face pressed between a stapler and manila folder. “Figo, you are an embarrassment to our country.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s as bad as that,” Luís said. He shifted on his feet, having the uncomfortable feeling that he was not only losing, but apologizing for it. “Look, just tell me what’s the matter.”

Mourinho raised his head slowly, like a snake rearing back to strike. His eyes fit the comparison perfectly with their folded lids and simmering resentment. “Why. Do you think. I know what. Pep is. Thinking.”

“Because he’s told you.”

“And why would he tell me instead of you?” Mourinho sighed.

“I have no idea, but clearly he has and I think I should know, if it’s such a problem. Just taking him off in a corner all the time isn’t going to help.” Luís paused. “ _Why_ do you keep talking to him, anyway? What are you two up to?”

A small spark appeared in Mourinho’s eyes. He started to answer, then drew up his lower lip over it and sat back in his chair. He pursed his lips and fiddled with a shirt-sleeve. “Why are you interested in what I’m doing with Pep?”

“Because…it’s making him moody and I don’t like him being moody,” Luís said slowly. He stood back from the desk. “Don’t turn this into a tactics analysis, José. It’s an entirely different thing.”

“No, it’s not. Why don’t you like him being moody?”

Luís threw up his hands. “Fine, if you won’t tell me, then just keep pulling him into dark corners. I’ll find out by myself.”

“Because you’ve done such a _fantastic_ job of it so far,” Mourinho muttered.

Halfway to the door, Luís stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

Mourinho sighed and nearly rolled his eyes. “Listen, Figo. It’s like shopping for a car. If you take it for a test drive and hear a funny noise, you don’t listen to the salesman who says it’s not a problem and buy the car anyway, do you? What do you do?”

“Pep is not a car and when he makes funny noises, I don’t leave him in the lot with some moron in a suit,” Luís pointed out.

“Exactly,” Mourinho said.

Luís banged the door on his way out. He heard someone exclaim and thought maybe he’d hit them, but then decided if they could still yell, they couldn’t be too badly off. Mourinho could wheel them into the treatment room down the hall and fix them up.

* * *

“What’s his problem?” Vitor asked, wandering back in.

José massaged his temples. “Guardiola.”

“Pep? I didn’t think they’d actually done anything yet.”

José stopped massaging his temples and stared through narrowed eyes at Vitor. “They haven’t.”

“Why not?”

* * *

“Because if he’s this oblivious, then maybe he’s not interested and he’s still a good friend of mine. I don’t want to jeopardize that just for the sake of physical satisfaction,” Pep said plaintively. “I can’t push the issue too far or he’ll feel trapped and mpph! Mmmph!”

Pep’s first reaction to the silk in his mouth was to try and spit it out. It didn’t go, so he put up a hand, only to have it pushed aside into the locker. When he went to pull it back, he felt something restraining it and peered in to see another tie wrapped around his wrist and binding it to one of the hooks. And then his other wrist got knotted up as well, and at that point Pep realized a better idea would have been to turn around instead of keeping his head in his locker.

Unfortunately, Mourinho already had both hands down Pep’s trousers. Then Pep’s trousers were what were down, and Mourinho’s hands were up spreading Pep’s legs, spreading some kind of fucking chilly lotion over his cock, and Pep took the second-best and thus useless option again by twisting madly against it. His shoes skidded on the slick floor and he ended up pushing his cock hard into the obliging circle of Mourinho’s fist. Then not so obliging and Pep arched viciously against the squeezing, right into the finger probing at his ass. He yelped through the gag and something between his wrists jerked, then gave sharply.

Pep dropped hard on his elbows to the bottom of his locker. His used kit was still there and the smell of sweat and mud plus the numbing impact on his arms temporarily overwhelmed him.

When he came back to himself, maybe seventy percent, his face was smashed into his arms and Mourinho was holding up his hips and fucking him like the man meant for them to break the entire row of lockers. Pep gasped, got a mouthful of soggy silk and coughed hard; the movement made his body shake which did fantastically knee-melting things to the way it took Mourinho’s prick, and Pep just dropped his head back into his arms. All right, thirty percent. Maybe twenty-nine. Or zero zip nada _god_ and God, his kit stank.

Afterward, Mourinho handed him a towel before untying the tie from Pep’s head, and left the tie around Pep’s wrists to Pep. The other man did up his trousers and went across the room while Pep was still trying to sort out which tingle belonged to which body part. Then Pep realized what one particular ache meant and threw the soiled towel at Mourinho as soon as the other man came back. “My calf! Again! And next week we play Real and—”

Mourinho held up a full suit in a plastic dry-cleaner’s cover. The towel bounced off and Mourinho pushed his arm out so Pep could take the hanger. “And your leg was problematic anyway, and even more of an issue is the fact that you and Figo have been so awkward around each other that I had to make up a story about eggs for Van Gaal. I’m trying to help, but I can’t do that when you put me in that kind of position. You can’t play like that. It doesn’t help the team or you or me or anybody.”

“Yes, but—oh, thank you—” Pep got the hanger hooked over his wrist, then finished shimmying the tie over his hands “—an injury is actually _serious_ and eggs?”

For a moment Mourinho stood there and looked at Pep. His gaze went from toes up and then side to side, and Pep got the distinct impression that if it was ever necessary, Mourinho could not only have a clean suit to hand but also could order one to Pep’s exact measurements. Or something else that required that degree of precision. “You like soft-boiled, Luís thinks they’re too likely to make you sick. It was a very nasty argument. Do you understand what it is _like_ to have to do such a thing? For you? But I still did it, because I believe in you and Figo. Don’t prove me wrong.”

Pep moved his mouth a few times. Then he shook his head and started to strip out of his suit. His leg twinged and he grimaced, then glowered at Mourinho. “Real Madrid. If I miss it, I will hold it against you till the day I die.”

Mourinho pulled a bored face as he checked his watch. “You’re not going to miss it, but someone’s going to notice you leaving late if you don’t hurry up.”

“Who?”

* * *

Luís politely refrained from thumping his head into the wall. “Vitor, I said I’d give you a lift. I didn’t say that I’d keep you company while you waited for Mourinho to come out and ravish you.”

Vitor stared. “Ravish?”

“Sorry. Pep lent me a book and it’s good but the language is a little old-fas—listen, don’t try to change the subject. I know what you’re doing and I’ve had it up to here with people trying to manipulate me,” Luís said. He poked his finger into Vitor’s chest. “If you want a lift, then we’re going now. You have all your things and if Mourinho can’t be bothered to come out and find you, then maybe you should think about what that says about his priorities.”

Vitor was still staring. “Who said I was waiting for him? I know he’s busy with Pep.”

“You said ten minutes ago that—wait, what with Pep? What does he want with Pep now?”

“Oh!” Finally some comprehension came into Vitor’s face. “I think they’re fucking. That’s what they’re usually doing, anyway.”

It took several minutes for Luís to figure out how to work his facial muscles. He started to ask Vitor what that meant, realized how much time he’d already lost, and just spun on his heel and went back into the building.

Barely a minute later, another door opened and Mourinho strolled out. He took the briefcase Vitor handed him with a nod, then followed the other man into the parking lot. “Excellent job.”

“Thanks.” Vitor dug around in his pockets, found his car keys and put them into the door of his car. Then he straightened up and looked at the other man. “Listen, José, it’s not like I’m not happy to help the team. I’m glad I can still do that, even though I’m not doing it by playing. But I’d rather do it by playing, you know?”

“I know. And I’m working on it, but you know…” Mourinho moved his shoulders and Vitor sighed in acknowledgement. But then Mourinho came forward and put his arm over Vitor’s shoulders. “But listen. Even if it doesn’t work out…here. I’ll remember. I know what you’ve done and I’ll remember it. And it’ll matter, I promise you. I’ll make it matter.”

A grin spread over Vitor’s face. He nudged his elbow into Mourinho, then bent down to the car door, still smiling.

* * *

“Deco, if you’re so cold, put on a sweater and some mittens,” somebody yelled.

Mournfully ignoring them, Deco just let the shiver run its course. Then he put his head down and got back to work, like always.

* * *

The door banged open just as Pep had shaken out his clean trousers. His feet weren’t in them and as a matter of fact, the buffet of air told him, he’d forgotten to pull up his underwear as well. His shirt-tails flapped uncomfortably between his thighs as he stared at Luís.

The other man stared back. His mouth opened and closed a few times as his gaze ran over Pep. Then he swore in Portuguese. “That bastard wasn’t kidding.”

“Luís,” Pep started falteringly. He dropped the trousers and clutched at his leg. “Goddamn it. Luís. Listen. This—”

“You can’t even stand up,” Luís said wonderingly. “It was so—you can’t stand up. That _bastard_.”

Pep gritted his teeth and pushed down on his knee, and made himself straighten. “Luís, first of all, I am standing, and secondly—”

Pep was swinging through the air, his head coming frighteningly near the floor. Then it swung nauseatingly sideways and ran into something firm, and an arm clamped over Pep’s waist, and Pep was still moving but he wasn’t swinging. He was over Luís’ shoulder and having his nose bump into Luís’ ass—which was a very nice view, but Pep shook his head. Then he grimaced and craned his neck so his face wasn’t being pummeled quite so much by the view, and tried to see where they were going. That bin of dirty towels looked familiar.

“Luís,” Pep tried for a third time. “Listen, we need to talk. And I’m—I’m dizzy so you need to put me down for that.”

“No.” Luís paused, then turned right and took off again.

Actually, Luís was holding Pep on his shoulder by Pep’s bare hips, more or less. Because Pep’s trousers were now back in the dressing room, several rooms back, and this was getting dire. “Luís! Put me down!”

“No.”

“I’m your captain!”

Luís dug his nails into Pep’s hip. “Not when you’re letting Mourinho screw you silly right before _El Clàsico_.”

Pep tried to grab Luís’ knee, missed and settled for hitting its back. Then regretted it as the joint half-buckled and Pep’s head came dangerously near a metal waste-bin. Not to mention it’d be past pathetic if they both ended up out of the weekend’s match because of—of—Pep tried to reach around and get hold of Luís’ shirt. “You’re in no position to lecture me about that.”

The world spun wildly again and then stopped with Pep’s back thumping down on a massage table and Luís’ face thrusting in on him. “If you’re going to do this kind of nonsense, you could at least do it with someone—”

“I would’ve rather done it with you!” Pep snapped. Being tossed down on the table had done nothing for his leg, let alone the other sore places in his body. On his body. Anyway, he wasn’t exactly at his best.

Luís shut his mouth.

Pep wondered if he could do the same, but finally recognized the delusion for what it was. He pushed himself up on his arms, but Luís wouldn’t get off him so there would be no easy escape. Not that Pep should take that route anyway and Pep just resigned himself to the bits of the world crashing down around him. “That…I mean…”

“Since when?” Luís asked.

“Since—since how have you not noticed? With the idiotic way I fall all over you?” Then again, ire was a wonderful mask for inner turmoil. “Everyone else has! José damn well has, and at least he’s willing to do something about it.”

“What? What way? Oh, you mean how you keep touching me? Pep, you do that to everyone. You can’t talk to somebody without grabbing a shoulder or a knee or a thigh—if I read anything into that, I would think you’re having affairs with half the league…and what do you mean, Mourinho’s willing to do something about it?” Luís put his hands on Pep’s upper arms and shoved Pep back down.

But he wasn’t quite tall enough to put all his weight into it. Pep shrugged him off and then tried to twist out from the side. “What it sounds like I mean. You’re not paying attention but he at least does, and he—”

“He what?” Luís snarled, heaving himself up onto the table. He pushed Pep back again and this time he kept one hand pinning down Pep’s shoulder. “He talks to you? I wouldn’t call that talking. I’d call that—what does he do? He screws you into a locker? Is that what he does? Is that what you goddamn want? Because I can do that. I can yank off these stupid club suits and slam you into a wall and then fuck you right through it, and I can do it better and make you like it more. He’ll screw you but I’ll _fuck_ you.”

And as Luís spat out each word, viciously tearing them from the air, he ripped open the front of Pep’s shirt and shoved it back over Pep’s shoulders so the sleeves trapped Pep’s arms at Pep’s side. He jammed his knee into Pep’s thigh and raked his nails down Pep’s chest, then forced his hands under Pep’s legs and hauled them up. They hadn’t finished dropping onto his shoulders before Luís had his teeth in Pep’s neck; Pep hadn’t finished having his eyes widen in shock before Luís’ fingers were pushing roughly behind his balls, dragging their sandpaper calluses over flesh still tender from Mourinho.

Pep twisted again, but he wasn’t trying to get away. He was trying to get _up_ , to actually see that this was happening but Luís chewed on his throat and instead he fell back with a gasp. “Oh, mother of—Luís, Luís, wait a moment, I didn’t mean, I meant, I didn’t know what you thought and I was frustrated and—”

Luís snarled again, his mouth full of Pep’s neck, and threw his shoulders into the backs of Pep’s legs. It actually lifted Pep off the table till only his head and shoulderblades were on it, and then when he came down, Luís stabbed a finger up. And the knuckle of his thumb, that pressing on the flesh spasming around the finger as it tried to come to terms with another invasion so quick on the heels of the last one. White lights burst painfully, wonderfully from behind Pep’s eyes as he pulled uselessly at the shirt pinioning his arms.

“—and Raúl,” Pep’s mouth babbled, “I am molest—no, it’s not that, it’s consensual and he’s fully a, a participant but it’s not the same, I want you to know, it’s not that I just want you like him or like what José does but you were so damn _blind_ and I, I, I can’t really figure out how to say this right now—”

Luís’ finger twisted around inside Pep and hooked something that made Pep lose all the air in his breath. The world went dangerously close to blanching out completely, then came woozily back to show Luís’ face just in front of Pep, lips writhed back from the bared teeth, eyes madly lit, gloriously angry.

“What the _hell_ does he do to make you stop talking?” Luís asked.

“Who? Oh, well, my tie, but he already used it, I think it’s in the dress—”

That was as far as Pep got before Luís ungraciously yanked out his finger. And then, before Pep could even finish being immensely disappointed about that, flipped Pep over and jammed Pep’s face into the pillow at the head of the table by way of sliding his prick up Pep’s left thigh and directly into his sore body. “Of course he would,” Luís muttered against the back of Pep’s neck, teeth grazing Pep’s spine. “Well, wait a moment and I’m not going to need a damn gag.”

“Luís, I can’t breathe,” Pep said. Tried to say. Mostly thought about saying, his mouth stuffed wide with the pillow, body no longer aching but positively electrified and barely clinging onto the table as Luís bucked into him.

Pep arched up and his mouth cleared the pillow. He felt his throat contract around some words and Luís grabbed his hips, wrenched them back and then used body weight to slam them forward, and instead what came out was a hoarse shout. Thank God Pep’s face went back into the pillow, because if someone heard and came running to interrupt, Pep might just ki—Pep shouted again, and this time it didn’t end in time for him to have any thoughts about it.

* * *

“So,” Luís said, pushing himself up on his arms. “You just wanted to get me in bed with you. Table. Horizontal padded surface, anyway.”

Pep rolled his head up to look at the other man. It was painful but it needed to be done, especially since the smug expression on Luís’ face didn’t fit at all his reproachful tone. “Either you stop looking like you thought this up all on your own, or I start telling you exactly who I did and what while waiting for you to figure out that—”

Luís did learn quickly.

* * *

Mourinho frowned like he didn’t understand the question. “We’re united against our greatest enemy. That’s enough for me.”

Pep drew in a breath.

“Excuse me, I have to go see the manager for a moment to finalize some pre-match things. I told Figo to come by and he should be along any moment, so can you stay and tell him I’ll be right back?” Mourinho added.

“Er. Yes,” Pep said, distracted already.

* * *

“It was a brilliant plan, but if you’re about to claim some kind of debt for this, can I remind you that nobody asked you to intervene?” Luís said.

Mourinho nodded. “Of course. But I wasn’t planning to do that. I just…would like you to appreciate what you have. Now and in the future.”

Somehow Luís wasn’t reassured. But before he could press the issue further, Pep came around the corner with Raúl trailing after him, liquidly pretty eyes fixed on Pep’s every word, and it…did things to Luís’ composure. He muttered that they’d talk more later and went after the two men.

“Of course,” Mourinho said to Luís’ back.

* * *

“Well, I suppose that’s a success then,” Vitor mumbled into the pillow. He shifted his arm over José’s chest.

José frowned and moved his hand so Vitor wasn’t blocking his notebook. He continued to make notes. “For the moment. Nobody knows what it might eventually be, not even me. For all I know, it might end up in a spectacular tragedy.”

* * *

In a pen somewhere in Spain, a sow turned uneasily over, nudging her young closer to her belly.

* * *

“But the end isn’t always the most important thing,” José added. “What matters is the lesson, and here it was that it’s always better to channel people’s impulses productively. So even if you end in failure, you can always take the lesson and try again. Eventually you will make it perfect.”

* * *

“Why the long face all the time? You’ve got such a bright future ahead of you,” somebody said to Deco.

He didn’t even bother answering them, but just stared at the horizon. He knew what it held in store for him.

**Author's Note:**

>   1. Pep Guardiola [ became a first-team regular](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/sport/football/european_football/article1052988.ece) at Barcelona during the 1991-92 season. He quickly gained influence in the dressing room and was named team captain in [1997 by new manager Louis van Gaal](http://www.fcbarcelona.cat/web/english/noticies/futbol/temporada08-09/09/n080923105384.html), but he frequently clashed with Van Gaal and the rest of the club administration.
>   2. Louis van Gaal managed Barcelona from 1997 to 2000. He led them to two league titles and a Copa del Rey victory, but was criticized for relying too heavily on imported Dutch players and not staying true to the club’s history and internal identity. He also had difficult relationships with key players such as Guardiola.
>   3. Luís Figo became world-renowned [during his time at FC Barcelona](http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4158/is_20000402/ai_n14297370/pg_1?tag=artBody;col1) (1995-2000), where he was (and still is) close friends with Pep Guardiola. He later made a controversial transfer to Real Madrid, Barcelona’s greatest rivals, which resulted in a [pig’s head](http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2002/nov/25/europeanfootball.sport1) being thrown at him during his first _El Clàsico_ as a Real player.
>   4. Raúl has stated that when he was younger, he admired Guardiola as a symbol of Spanish football. Despite having opposite views on the relation of Catalans to the rest of Spain, Guardiola and Raúl apparently got along very well when they were both in the Spanish national team.
>   5. Already renowned in the Portuguese league, Vitor Baía transferred to Barcelona from Porto in 1996 when Porto manager Sir Bobby Robson also went to Barcelona. However, recurring knee problems kept him from seeing much playing time. He also [fell out of favor with Louis van Gaal](http://www.fifa.com/worldfootball/news/newsid=660433.html) and transferred back to Porto in 1999. He and Mourinho overlapped at Barcelona, and were reunited in 2002 when Mourinho became manager of Porto. Together they won two league titles, the Portuguese Cup, the UEFA Cup and the Champions League. Mourinho and Baía were close, with Mourinho even criticizing Scolari (then coaching the Portuguese national team) for not calling up Baía. Baía [still thinks highly of Mourinho](http://www.uefa.com/competitions/supercup/news/kind=1/newsid=878881.html).
>   6. Early in his management career, José Mourinho [served at Barcelona](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/2321557/Mourinho's-Chelsea-love-affair-finally-ends.html) as Sir Bobby Robson’s translator and coaching staff member, and he eventually became coach of the B team. He apparently [got on well with several influential players at the club](http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/sport/football/article404075.ece), including Figo and Guardiola, and with Guardiola, provided some continuity and stability during the transition in head manager from Sir Bobby Robson’s time to the tumultuous Van Gaal years. Mourinho remained part of Barcelona’s backroom staff till 2000, when he left to take up a position at Benfica.
>   7. Deco, later such a key player in Mourinho’s Porto side, arrived in Portugal in 1997 to join Benfica. His full name is Anderson Luís de Souza and he has a [naturally paranoid expression.](http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2004/jun/19/euro2004.sport4)
> 



End file.
